She Who Talks to Cats
by Werecat99
Summary: COMPLETE. The boy will be quite safe, Minerva. Arabella and her cats will see to it. A tribute to Arabella Figg, Rowling’s crazy cat woman, and to Nocturne, a beloved cat who passed on.


Disclaimer: Not mine, nor do I make any money out of it. Written in honor of all the crazy cat women out there.

**She Who Talks to Cats**

Have you seen the old woman who lives down the street, not far from the Dursleys?

A middle-aged woman, wearing tartan carpet slippers, her clothes always covered in cat fur?

Sometimes, you can see her sitting at her back yard, under a pine tree, her fingers softly playing with the spears of grass, so gently as if she stroked a cat's back. In a way, she does, for under the shade of that tree her beloved ones rest. Young careless kittens, too slow for the passing drivers and aged toms, too old to hiss at death anymore, are buried there. She tends to them, clearing away the weeds and the fallen leaves from their resting place, and often talks to them, about their offspring and their littermates.

My dear Arabella… She is such an extraordinary woman!

I knew her parents well, Minerva. Good, decent people. Her mother had a great talent in herbology, if memory serves well. The pride of Hufflepuff at her time, much like Arabella's father, who, later on, excelled in deciphering ancient curses and hexes. When Arabella turned eleven, he brought her from Egypt the talisman she still wears close to her heart: the image of a cat-headed woman carved in alabaster. Yes, I am aware of what he told her about the talisman's mystical powers, but I have sensed no power in it. He probably bought that trinket in Khan Al-Khalili, to help his daughter forget of her non-existent magic.

One cold winter night, during the old days, Arabella confided in me the stories her mother told her at bedtime: how it feels like to fly on a broomstick, to levitate, or to swish and flick your wrist and have a myriad sparkles spring from the tip of your wand, illuminating the world around you with countless rainbows. Nothing but a simple spell to put children to sleep, but Arabella's face shone in remembering her mother's magic. Every night of her childhood years, she fell asleep dreaming of the time she too could do magic.

But that time never came. The days became weeks and the weeks became years, and still young Arabella showed no signs of magic. Her parents tried to comfort her, assuring her that they loved her anyway, but the burden never left her heart. She could see the disappointment in her father's eyes, when late at night he bent over ancient, dusty scrolls and papyri. She could see the heartache in her mother's face, when she labored over her pots and plants. As far as I know, neither of them ever voiced a word of displeasure. But deep in her heart, Arabella sensed their pain.

Did this pain eventually led to their death? This I cannot tell. Unlike others during those dark days, neither the Dark Lord nor any of his followers came after Arabella's parents. Both of them withered away, as if some old curse from her father's scrolls had consumed their energy. I remember her at the funeral, standing over the grave in her simple, black robes, her face wet and puffy. As I turned to leave, I recall one of the cemetery cats rubbing its back against her legs. My heart clenched for her - for the plain girl with no magic, whom the young wizards of her age ignored, or – worse – laughed at.

I should have known better; the Universe overlooks none of its creatures.

As she told me at a later date, that cemetery cat spoke to her. At first she ignored it, deeming it a figment of her imagination and a result of her grief. But when she came back, a few days later, to tend to the grave, the cat waited for her. This time, she found that she could not ignore the cat's plea.

What did the cat want, you ask? She asked for help, Minerva. "In the name of our Great Cat Mother, whose icon you wear," the cat said, "please, good lady, please, help my kittens." Instinctively, Arabella's hand rose and touched the small alabaster talisman on her chest. This time, she followed the catto one of the undertakers' equipment shack. A sign hung at the front window said: "Kittens for adoption. Ask Mr. Tibbles for information."

Arabella returned home with two kittens, one male and one female. I'm sure you can guess how she named the male one, Minerva.

In the years that followed, the cats never left her side. They shared her bed at nights, purring softly, whispering between dreams and waking charms and chants of another, ancient time. They told her tales and legends from a faraway land where the sun always shines, and evil dares not walk under the merciless sunlight. They wove around her a shield of protection, working with claw and fur and kneading paws. When the Dark Lord came to power, they stood guards around her, and they ventured into the darkness, spying - seeing all those things that men wish most to keep hidden.

Neither the Dark Lord nor his followers ever approached her – and why should they bother with a Squib, with a crazy woman who talks to the cats? Little do they know that where soft paws walk, Darkness dares not tread.

The boy will be quite safe, Minerva. Arabella and her cats will see to it.

* * *

Author's notes: 

The cat-headed woman is the Egyptian Goddess Bast, of course.

Khan Al-Khalili: a very popular street market in Cairo, Egypt.

"All those things that men wish most to keep hidden": Reference to Tolkien's Queen Berúthiel, another crazy cat woman who's very dear to my heart.


End file.
